


Live Broadcast

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Yondu, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 22:30:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6258283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing like being trapped in a room with your first mate while your crew listens to every word you say.</p><p>Somehow, this is probably Peter's fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live Broadcast

**Author's Note:**

> **Just got back from a super long car drive. Decided to celebrate the occasion with porn. Enjoy.**

It starts off as an excellent day. The worst ones always do.

Yondu should be wise to it by now. Murphy’s Law, right? He’s suffered the cosmos’s cruel sense of humor long enough to know that when you roll outta bed to a commlink free of crises, steal a kiss from your mate (which turns to several after he grabs your ears and demands you indulge him) then saunter onto Bridge to be greeted by a half-dozen sloppy salutes, all systems humming and ready for a new day; you ought to be on the lookout for the stormcloud that’s lurking behind that pretty silver lining.

There will be one, he guarantees. It’ll bite you in the ass when you least expect it – or, as in his case, fuck you in it.

Yondu’s problem goes something like this: captains choose their own gigs. Calculating by efficiency, he prefers to grace the larger raids with his presence to remind the men what he’s capable of, rather than tagging along on stealth jobs. As a result, while his lung capacity has increased exponentially over the past decade spent screaming at his idiot crew, Yondu ain’t so good at keeping _quiet._ Especially not when Kraglin’s involved. Or certain parts of Kraglin’s anatomy.

First sign his perfect morning isn’t destined to continue is the alarm. Sirens on the Bridge are rarely a good sign (unless Peter’s hacked them so they play his tunes: a prank repeated once every couple of years that Yondu finds hilarious and everyone else finds infuriating, cementing their determination that they should’ve eaten the kid when they had the chance). But the neon-red _Breach_ light strobing like a quasar overhead makes this an even worse catastrophe than those Ravagers slog through on a semi-regular basis.

Yondu’s lucky he insists everyone on board know their drills. Nova _health and safety regulations_ can choke on his fist – but while the crew might whinge after he’s hauled them outta bunk at some ungodly hour for surprise evacuation practice, it makes these situations run a helluva lot smoother.

Red-clad aliens pile from the doors, jostling one another’s shoulders as they grab emergency patch kits from behind panels and under control consoles. Yondu doesn’t think twice about activating the general comm and barking into the ear of every sod onboard – “Y’all better be scramblin’ to fix my ship, else there’s gonna be hell to pay!”

It’s not his best threat. But hey – Yondu’s morning’s been ruined; he deserves a lil slack.

Kraglin seems to think otherwise. He swears at the readout scrolling across the internal report screen. “Fuck! We got us a boarder!”

“Fuck,” is Yondu’s eloquent response.

This has gone beyond what a simple patch job can fix. Sure, the crew can boost power to the engines, healing the ailing forcefield while they solder together spare hull plates and plaster their gaping blow-hole closed; but if the intruder’s already inside… They don’t need a crew armed with welding equipment and hand-cobbled blasters. They need a hunter.

It’s time to remind ‘em why he’s captain. His implant’s inadequate when he’s not surrounded by native foliage. The only biotics aboard are those of higher-functioning sentience, so hacking their neural nets is out – but he can still exude empathic feelers: wash over every Ravager whose mental signature he’s familiarized himself with until he tastes the vinegar-tang of a foreign body.

“Stay,” he says to Kraglin. Not that the order needs to be given; Kraglin’s used to holding fort while his captain goes to pound their enemies to dust, and he nods, tight-lipped and pale. Yondu jogs to the Bridge door. He thumps the panel to be released – then kicks it when it takes too long, toe smarting under its steel cap. He boots it again anyway when he realizes their door relays aren’t merely lagging, but have been cut completely. “Fuck!”

“Arrow?” Kraglin asks, short and to-the-point. Yondu shakes his head. Nah – he ain’t punching a hole in the Bridge gate: it’s a hermetic vacuum-seal should other parts of top-deck breach.

“Crew’ve weathered worse,” he growls. “They’ll do good. Jus’ gotta sit tight and give ‘em orders from here.” And with that in mind, he adjusts the function settings on his watch, locking it so that the comm implant – which nestles under the translator in his neck, a dark little nubbin that Kraglin likes to worry with his teeth until it’s swollen and aching to the touch – will broadcast everything he says. “Alright boys! The wiser among ya might’ve noticed our doors are playing up. Ya don’t need daddy on this one – use yer heads. There’s an enemy aboard, and I guarantee y’all that they’re playin’ havoc in the control hub right now. If ya hurry, you might catch ‘em!”

The thunder of booted feet changes course, charging on his orders like an infantry troop drummed to battle. The door in front of him is obsidian black, threaded with rust and knife-scars; bioluminescence from his implant gleams across the metal like blood in an oil spill. Yondu glares at it. Would it really do it that much damage, if he whistled? Only two quick passes: once through the lock and back again. They could stuff it with solder afterwards. Sure, it’ll be a fault should Worst Case Scenario ever come to pass, but honestly, how likely is that…?

Okay, so maybe he’s just frustrated. It ain’t no fun _listening_ to a battle. Not when he could be leading it.

Kraglin sidles forwards. Yondu’s attention snaps to him as Kraglin grips his forearms, easing them around until he has his captain backed against the door. With the comm transmitting, he can’t exactly ask what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, but given as it’s attached to his vocal cords alone, Kraglin can say whatever he likes without fear of the crew eavesdropping.

“You’re tellin’ me we’re stuck here.”

Yondu shifts, testing the hands that pin him against frigid steel. They’d be easy to slip. Even if Kraglin was _trying_ to keep him there, Yondu could nut him and duck away – but Kraglin’s keeping his assault light and gentle, almost ticklish, as he ducks to nibble the stubble lining his captain’s sharp jaw. “Yer tellin’ me you an’ me are stuck here, until they splice the circuits, and yer broadcastin’ to all the crew at once?”

Yondu considers, as Kraglin’s hand wanders south. Then briskly nods.

Hey – this day’s already gone to shit. Whether this will redeem it or make it worse, it’s a gamble Yondu’s willing to take, so long as there’s an orgasm waiting for him at the end.

Plus – Kraglin’s hand. Kraglin’s hand, which is pressing on each of his nipples, fingers tracing their shapes through his thick underjacket. Kraglin can’t feel them. The material’s too sturdy for that – but Yondu certainly does, as they pebble and rub on the underside of the leather, tingles swarming along his spine. Those tingles increase in intensity as Kraglin pushes his jacket up, coat already shucked off his shoulders, and starts to play with Yondu’s pouch.

Yondu smacks his head on the door, fighting to prevent his breathing from becoming ragged. If he makes a noise, they’ll hear it. They’ll all hear it. They’ll know exactly what’s going on: first mate, holding the captain’s hips in place while he inserts a palm under that taboo flap of skin intended only for eggs and the touch of the most intimate lover, and fondles the tiny secondary teats within.

Blood washes his mouth. He’s bitten through his lip. Yondu sucks the raw gash dry, feeling the texture of the cut against his tongue. The pain’s incidental. But it makes a delicious contrast to pleasure, as Kraglin tweaks those internal nipples and insinuates his knee between Yondu’s. When Kraglin grabs his chin and forcefully tilts his head, crashing his lips on Yondu’s bloodied ones, it’s like a fiery brand is being wedged in his mouth. Yondu whimpers before he can help himself – and knows from Kraglin’s snigger that he heard the same sound reverberate through his ear, laced with static and almost dismissible as electrical feedback.

“Careful sir,” he purrs. “Wouldn’t want the crew to hear, would ya?” And he extracts himself from Yondu’s pouch to cup his stiffening cock.

Yondu bites his tongue this time. Then harder, when a voice filters through the earpiece – “Hey boss, we’re at the circuit hub and there ain’t no one here. Orders?”

Okay, he can do this. This is a power play, nothing more – there’s been plenty in the past, small and teasing games rather than plots for mutiny, but Yondu’d rather emerge victorious nevertheless. Never does to let your second get one up over you. Yondu catches Kraglin’s wrist in a bone-grinding hold. He smirks when his brown eyes pop and his lips peel back, hissing in pain, and squeezes harder. “Fan out,” he tells the comm. Any extra growl in his voice can be passed off as anger. “Make this fucker sorry they so much as _looked_ at our girl.”

Then he hooks his ankle around Kraglin’s calf, and deposits him on the floor. Kraglin bounces. Mostly.

“Ow! Wha –“

He doesn’t get chance to bitch. Yondu’s on top of him by then, calmly issuing orders while riding out Kraglin’s bucks and grinding his ass down. He rests on his knees, thighs squashed to Kraglin’s abdomen and arching so his cock slides over Kraglin’s belly, separated by leathery garb, while his ass curves into his first mate’s grip behind. “Teams of four, sort yerselves out by the dorm block. Those in North wing search there, same for the others – comb the fuckin’ place over.”

“Shoot first, ask questions later?” queries one, as Kraglin warms to their game, hungrily groping Yondu’s rear as if he can knead moans free.

Sure enough, his voice is a little breathless when he replies – it only gets worse when Kraglin releases him to tug at his jumpsuit zipper, opening the crotch panel so Yondu can feel the heat of his skin. “N-nah, fer all we know he mighta grabbed a spare coat… Don’t want no friendly fire. Stay in yer groups, scan the faces of any loners.”

Kraglin unbuckles Yondu’s arrow harness. He places it with all due reverence out of the reach of writhing, kicking, or stray spurts of cum. Yondu steadies himself on his first mate’s shoulders, and rises to let Kraglin finish relieving him of his belts and drag his pants down. “You get all that?” he asks the comm.

“Uh, we organize into groups by dorm block and… um…”

Thanos smite him. It’s high time he invested in a Bridge crew with an IQ that isn’t higher than they can count. Kraglin liberates a lube pot from Yondu’s crumpled pants pocket, and pops the lid with an enquiring shrug. Yondu dunks his fingers and starts prepping himself, talking the whole while as the dry tack of skin turns to wet squelches.

“You organize by dorm blocks. Four main blocks, four quarters of the ship. Start from the central lift column and fan out, searching… searching all…” His fingers are joined by two of Kraglin’s, similarly coated. They entwine with his, trapped together by the heat of his body, easing his clenching channel open.

“Sir?” asks the crewman. “Think the comms cut out a moment there.” Oh. Right. They’re on a mission. An important mission. Combing their own hold for vandal scum who oughta be gutted on sight. Whole crew’s at risk.

Kraglin caresses his prostate. Bastard.

“Read ya loud an’ clear,” Yondu chokes, removing his digits so he can present them to Kraglin to clean. He does so without fuss, keeping a steady, sloppy rhythm as he sucks them deep. His own fingers – longer, albeit slimmer – probe deeper still, and the next words Yondu intended to say dribble out of his brain, liquefied by the fuzz of Kraglin’s curly pubic hair that tickles his inner thighs. “Uh – uh, what’d ya miss?”

“Something about searching?”

“Right… right…” Kraglin’s other hand squeezes his shoulder, tugging him so they rest chest-to-chest. It’s close – they have to breath in tandem: Kraglin inhales when Yondu exhales and vice versa to prevent his skinny ribcage being squashed against the floor. He smells of leather and arousal. It’s intoxicating. Yondu buries his face in his neck as Kraglin continues prepping him, locating the comm implant that’s feeding his words to Kraglin’s ear and lathing it with a spit-slicked tongue.

“Sir?” the Ravager prompts.

“Searching, yeah, I got ya. Search all the lil’ apartments, cleaning cupboards, pipes… Heck, where’s Quill? Quill, you on line?”

“Wassup, Yondu?”

Teenage years. Yondu scoffs, and shivers around Kraglin’s fingers as the noise makes the body beneath him tense. Kraglin’s face is too close to focus on properly – at least, he can’t see any of the features in isolation. The vivid redness speaks for itself though. As does the quiet groan when Yondu taps the comm implant with his sharp gold teeth.

“Y’know all them cubbies ya used to hide in when you was a brat?”

“When you kept threatening to eat me?” Quill replies. For some reason, he sounds accusatory. Yondu rolls his eyes.

“Them ones. Think you could point ‘em out on a map? Our stowaway’s prob’ly holed up in one as we –“

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. This is not because he’s hit by a brainwave, or because he undergoes an arbitrary aneurysm – although it sure as heck feels like one. It’s simply the shock as Kraglin yanks his fingers out, and he goes from stuffed to empty in under a second. Yondu’s ass squeezes over nothing, silvery lube trailing down his legs. He can feel cool air inside him. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes.

“Um,” says Peter.

“Sir?” says the first Ravager. “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah; I just, I –“ Think fast. He’s gotta think fast. Kraglin’s smirking, he’s sure of it; so Yondu grinds hard against the rock-stiff prick between his cheeks, determined not to be beaten. If the hungry jerk of Kraglin’s hips is any indication, he’s accepting his defeat graciously. Yondu’s vision shutters as Kraglin wraps lube-slathered palms around his cock. It takes a moment to discover that he’s not blacked out; his eyes have just dropped to a blissful half-mast. It takes another moment to remember his crew’s waiting for an explanation.

Yondu clears his throat. Kraglin, sensing an opportunity, starts shifting the navy skin along the taut column, while Yondu holds himself aloft so as not to crush his first mate’s hands. “Thought I saw somethin’ outside,” he lies smoothly – smooth as one can, when their balls are being manipulated by a bony thumb, ass open and needy and ready to be filled. He’s gotta step this up a notch, or Kraglin’ll keep surprising him. Can’t let him win this bout.

Yondu squashes their chests together, feeling Kraglin’s gasp more than he hears it. “S’only an asteroid,” he continues to the curious crew. “We good to go.”

And with that, he reaches behind himself and steadies Kraglin’s cock so he can pop his rim over its blunt, sticky head.

Kraglin _whimpers_. His prick’s long and dusky red; not as wide as some but with a wicked curve that hooks Yondu right the way he likes it. He has to sit up straight again to take him to the root, insides quivering around the impalement. But he’s sure to give Kraglin a parting kiss, and then a welcoming one when he folds back over him, shaft churning at his channel.

“Fuckin’ hell, sir, _sir_ …”

Yondu’s getting into this now. He pushes his lower half up, thighs straining, allowing Kraglin’s prick to escape him halfway. Then sinks slowly down again, engulfing him to the base as he tells their men – “An’ look lively, wouldya? I want this fucker strung up as a figurehead before mess opens at lunch.”

“Yessir,” come the chirps. The multitude of Ravager voices merge with Kraglin’s: evermore desperate as Yondu rides him, feeling the stab of his cock from implant to toes. He looks magnificent. Spread beneath him like a prize to be plundered; the flashes of the emergency beacon blend the merlot leather of his jumpsuit with the lurid mottles of pink and red that swarm his visible face and neck. Every muscle is taut as wire, every tendon bulging against the surface of the skin. He’s the picture of need, and Yondu revels in the knowledge that he’s won their game almost as much as he relishes the agonized, beautiful twist of Kraglin’s face as he comes.

“Good,” he purrs. Strokes Kraglin’s beard, so he knows the words are for him. “Yer doin’ _so good._ ”

If there’s a bit of an awkward silence after that, Yondu’s too busy swallowing his moans to care.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Eclector_ ’s a sturdy old girl, so long as you don’t go revving her engines like you’re a middle-aged Xandarian toting some high-horsepowered compensation. However, anyone familiar with the internal mechanics of a mid-fifty-seventh millennium fusion engine could cause damage that went beyond the realms of _irreparable_ , into _five seconds until total depressurization_. They wouldn’t even have to blow the radiation core. Scupper ‘em in this asteroid field and they’d be pummelled to pieces the moment the grav-shields expired.

Yondu ought to be grateful no mass-extinction of Ravagerkind has occurred. However, a small part of him insists that such a demise would be preferable to dying of embarrassment.

No one looks at him on Bridge the next day. Yondu, admiring the burst and bloated body they’ve strapped to the galleon’s gunwale, doesn’t think much of it – until Peter saunters alongside, grinning like he’s in on a joke, and asks “Who was on top?”

Yondu squints at him. Musta heard wrong. “Huh?”

Peter’s smirk is insufferably smug. “I put money on Kraglin.”

_“Huh?”_

By now the whole Bridge has an ear tipped their way. Peter, lounging against the observation window, picks dirt from beneath his nails and does his best not to laugh. “Y’know your voice goes all husky when you’re getting screwed?”

Yondu chases him all around the Bridge and out onto the decks, arrow skimming an inch from the Terran’s temples. Once he’s ensured that Peter’s sorry for his unwelcome commentary (and punches Kraglin for daring to chuckle) he blames his navy face on the exercise.

**Author's Note:**

> **THE WIP-UPDATES ARE COMING. I promise. Thank you all for being so patient! x**
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> **Please drop a comment, especially if you've enjoyed this fic!**
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> ****


End file.
